


You and Me, Fit so Tight

by Satan In Purple (purple_satan)



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Claire is DAMAGED, Claire is of Age but this is Still Not Okay, F/M, Noah is NOT #1 Worlds Best Dad of the Year Award Winner Ever, Stockholm Syndrome, Sylaire- Freeform, Sylar is an Asshole but almost means well, roadtrip au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:58:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_satan/pseuds/Satan%20In%20Purple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things that no one can take from you, not even the villan of the story. </p><p>Claire reflects on her inevitable fall for Sylar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You and Me, Fit so Tight

**Author's Note:**

> Set before _Pass/Fail_ , thus slightly AU. Warning: non-graphic depiction of rape. If that’s a trigger, this story might not be a story for you.

 

\--

The first time he came for her, there was the fear of the unknown, of weakness, the fear of dying she stopped feeling after attempt number four or five.

Then there was violation, completely and utterly, as his fingers poked at her brain and saw her innermost secrets.

Then there was no pain, no feelings at all.

 

(She may be blonde, but she’d like to think she’s also been a good actress.)

 

 

\--

 

When he came for her the second time, she’s wasn’t entirely surprised what he wanted from her. He’s always had a problem with taking things that weren’t his, and she supposed _that_ was no different. He’d always been about control, and that was the ultimate power play to remind her of exactly who was.

Except he didn’t try and ply her with wine, puppet her, or make threats against her family. He wasn’t cocky, nor particularly nice or encouraging as he went about orchestrating _it_ , looking less like the menacing villain she remembered and more like a man possessed. It reminded her of Brody and she remembers how she screamed and screamed until her throat was raw. But instead of relishing the fear, he silenced her. She struggled against the much larger frame of her captor, the dark burn in his eyes, a maniacal glint to them that was foreign. It was then she finally felt the same fear as the first time. Because it seemed that the Sullivan Brothers Carnival had left its mark on him too.

He moved above her and she shut it out, compartmentalized, as he coaxed from her body an unwilling orgasm that made her cheeks flame with embarrassment. As he held her down she felt her virginity disappear like the promise of knowing her biological parents, like the illusion of a normal life, like the promise of something special she could give willingly one day to someone else.

They didn’t talk afterwards, but the sharp tattoo of her own face staring at her was conspicuous on his arm, despite efforts to hide it. His nonsensical whispers about their destinies being entwined he breathed into he shell of her ear started to make a bit more sense tthan they probably should.

It’s not like she expected a heartfelt discussion after her attack, but historically Sylar won’t shut up when he’s in her direct vicinity. So the fact he stayed eerily silent was not lost on her as he zipped back up his pants and laid there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, still breathing heavily. His heart was beating wildly enough she could hear it and he looked a little bit too much like a caged animal loose for her liking.

She rolled over, and even with the knowing this would eventually happen, the silent tears still came. Fat, salty teardrops running down her face.

 

The pain of humiliation, of shame, a terrible gift. The kind of which no one can take from you (not even demi-godlike specials).

 

 

\--

 

Saying she’s only slightly appalled her father is on board with Sylar’s plan (or some semblance of it), especially given their combined histories would be the understatement of the year. She yells profusely, calls both him and Sylar as many terribly uncreative names laced with profanities she can muster, beats Noah on the chest with her tiny ineffectual fists, even kicks him in the shin once. He just takes it, repeating the same thing over and over to her like a mantra.

_I’m sorry, Claire-bear, but it’s for the best. He may be a monster, but he’s promised to keep you safe and that’s something no one else can do currently._

The silent _safe from everyone but himself,_ hangs in her mind as Noah drops his voice to an unnecessary whisper, warns her about all the things she already known about the monster standing across from them for years. Desperation for a child’s safety does odd things to a father’s sanity, she concludes after her hysteria has passed, the situation must be far worse than she knows if it means throwing her to the devil they know a better alternative.

_My very own monster._

Sylar stands in the doorjamb, arms crossed, a look hovering somewhere between bored and mildly fascinated at something going on outside the window, until his gaze stops on Claire and softens. It makes her want to punch him in his homicidal face.

“Ready to go, _Claire-bear?”_ He asks, her father glares at the use of his particular nickname, now forever warped by the other rooms occupant.

 

It makes her throw up in her mouth a little knowing how much her dad loathes him, and yet, is really okay with this idea.

 

 

_\--_

 

The timeline in her head goes something like this: she almost gets a shot at sort-of normal life at college, freaky carnival brainwashes Sylar but it doesn’t take, they find out carnival is after her too, dad then makes a pact with the devil himself and she is put into a twisted semblance of protective custody that involve hours of riding in a car with Sylar until she has absolutely no idea where she is.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat last step times infinity.

She contemplates jumping out of the car numerous times, earning her one of those huge, fuzzy eyebrows of his raised, the child lock on her door engaged.

_Sylar has child locks on his car. Christ._

Its so mundane it almost makes her laugh.

 

_\--_

 

He is a silent spectre watching over her at night in the grungy motels he checks them into, always looming somewhere in their room when she opens her eyes, his shadow impossibly taller and more impressive in the wan moonlight.

He doesn’t have to cut the phone lines or lock the doors anymore. Her father made it very clear there is no home, no family, nothing for her to return to while she’s still being hunted. And it makes her cry, she cries silently at night for the life she had, making sure not to make a sound lest his super hearing pick up on it.

 

On day four (five?) she asks him if life is going to be like this forever, and he doesn’t say much on the subject, just squares his jaw and stares at the road. It is not a blissful feeling that he leaves her to her own thoughts.

 

_\--_

 

He occasionally slips into Nathan, regresses. It’s odd that she can tell, not because his mannerisms remind her of her deceased father, but because they _don’t_ remind her of the Sylar she’s known since she was a pretty little cheerleader everyone had to save in Odessa. She doesn’t humour him with any change of emotion until she sees her _real_ father’s eyes staring at her and misses a relationship she never really got the chance to have, the hope of someone saving her dashed over and over and over making her eyes well with tears.

Sometimes he doesn’t act like either of them. That’s when it worries her the most.

The times when he’s not cold and calculating, picking something apart with that dry humour of his, but is quiet and nervous. Taut, like a rubber band stretched too far and ready to snap. Sometimes he mutters while looking in the rearview mirror, shifting into people involuntarily, some of whom she knows, most of whom she doesn’t. She watches him flicker between faces from the corner of her eye, trying to be discreet. Some conversations are for no one to hear.

He settles back to the form she knows most well and then asks her if she’d _fancy_ some ice cream. She gives him a beleaguered sigh, going back to staring at miles of road ahead of them.

She supposes she’s already been around him too long when she realizes she doesn’t like unpredictable things, things she can’t figure out either.

 

 

_\--_

 

They keep moving. She wonders where he’s getting the funding for all of this until he turns the cheap bracelet she’s wearing to solid gold slipping it off her wrist with cold hands. The first thing that comes to mind is: _who did he kill for that power?_ as Sylar pawns it and some other stuff, buys them a new car, some new clothes (black for him, and non-skanky, soft, tasteful pastels for her) and a new bottle of hair dye just for her.

It's ruby red, a colour she knows so well.

A milestone between them, the first time since the trip started he touches her --all of the manhandling previously had been graciously taken care of courtesy of telekinesis-- just a brief hand coming up to touch her blonde hair, trailing fingers through it, giving her an unreadable expression.

“I’m going to miss your blonde hair, cheerleader.”

One more thing he’s taking from her. But this is something she gives up willingly, almost wantonly as she lets him massage the dye into her scalp, even though she knows how to do it on her own. He stares into her eyes from behind her in the bathroom mirror, and she steels herself to not flinch and glare back at him, the best look of utter loathing she can conjure up.

Her damnable body betrays her under his ministrations to her scalp and she loosens up involuntarily for a moment. A small smile creeps across his face, just a slight quirk of one side of his lips upward.

_Progress._

 

_\--_

 

There’s only the one time while she was still at college, which is the only part of this whole ordeal that really confuses her, since he has her but he’s not exactly making good on _doing_ anything with her other than buying her sensible clothes and taking her on the worst, most boring roadtrip across America ever conceived. It’s beyond three shades of odd even for Sylar, and that’s saying a lot.

Since he has spirited her away Sylar has been a perfect gentleman, either sleeping on the floor or a separate bed and giving her ample space while reminding her not-so subtly he always still there, usually with telekinesis. They talk some, _sure_. Sylar has opinions on lots of things, most things she’s never heard of. Science and world events she thinks someone like Dr. Suresh probably would have been a better conversationalist about. It probably does nothing to dispel the vapid cheerleader persona she still carries years later that she cannot hold these conversations with him, despite the fact she knows he doesn’t proscribe to it anymore.

What their conversation lacks, their arguing does not. They argue spiritedly, fantastically even. Tiny points of contention become huge blowouts that generally end in Claire locking herself in the bathroom, in the car, in the motel, while he waits out her tirades patiently, more patient than any man she’s ever known. When they get to the point of insisting she use his God-given name when addressing him, she just sneers. He doesn’t have the right to try and be someone else, even if he checks them into hotels in a different disguise each time, periodically has her change his hair as well.

That night he dyes her hair, and she touches herself in the shower, crying for innocence lost as she watches the water runs red like blood down the drain for what seems like hours, fascinating her as it bleeds into the tepid shower water. Swiring down, down, down.

She’s wringing out her hair when she sees it, a gold plated rose on top of her pajamas. Her captor’s peace offering. Taking the olive branch, she sets it delicately next to the small bag of sundries he’s provided her with, reins in the tears for a (fake) smile she knows that he wishes would at least meet her eyes.

She crawls into the single bed he’s relaxed on, but keeps as wide of a distance between them as possible as she drifts off into restless sleep.

 

 

_\--_

 

They keep moving, and the miles pass, whipping through her auburn locks. Any promise of a life other than the one she is living feels like grains of sands slipping through her tiny fingers. Memories warp like glass under the hot desert sun of somewhere in Arizona, meld together and reform, coalesce. Somewhere across state lines Sylar stops being the monster she quite remembered and becomes her savior.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

She curls up against his side in the bench seat of the newest car they have traded in for, wedging herself between him and the door. When he finally wraps an arm around her shoulders she gives in to the very real and concrete realization this is going to be forever. Forever with him, or stay lonely.

It hits her like a freight train.

The fact she’s the only one he feels is worthy for him to try and make amends to softens her icy heart when she sees how her killer, rapist, monster, savior has become completely and utterly devoted to her alone. _Stockholm syndrome,_ she dredges up from the depths of her mind, _it’s got to be that_. The only reason she’d feel even an ounce of pity or solace for a monster, her parent’s murderer, the man who sawed off the top of her skull and violated her. She wonders how long of a leash she has him on.

Because the changes in him have changed her. In ways more personal and even worse than she’d ever thought, changing something intrinsic to her being human, her righteous fury she thought she'd keep and scorch him with one day like a firebrand, snuffing out.

He never includes that particular tidbit in the litany of transgressions he whispers he’s sorry for when he finally touches her that night and she never asks why he did it to her in the first place. if he did it out of mercy or malice, selfish meddling, she still does not know. Like a grander scheme she doesn’t know the designs for,, as he touches her different than the first or second time. He touches her like a supplicant kneeling at an altar, begging her for forgiveness of his crimes as she lies there. The salty tears wet against her skin as he clings to her, but she doesn’t wipe them away. Certain, undeniable things have changed between them. And yet, she not just ready to give him the one thing he can’t forcibly take from her like all the others in the past--

_Forgiveness._

 

 

Then again, he does have forever to make it up to her.


End file.
